


three letters that you need to spell trust

by CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball



Series: Equilibrium of Three Forces [6]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 23:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball/pseuds/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball
Summary: Erik's POV of Chapter 9 ofThreefold“He’s gon’ forgive me, cause he’s an idiot like that. He was doing this painful gazing thing, you know? Hate to admit it, but I felt kinda shitty leaving him standing there.”“You are not anirredeemableasshole, yes, I know.” M’Baku says.





	three letters that you need to spell trust

**Author's Note:**

> Reading Treefold first is recommended, but this is just a note on a fic, so do whatever you want!

_“Ey, kitten!” Erik calls. “You know we gon’ find you, right?”_

_“Consider that a promise, ômô ológbò.”_

_The Panther ignores them gracefully and vanishes into the starlit savannah with an elegant swish of his tail._

_“Well, that was productive.” Erik says, sardonic._

_“It seems to me that we are on our own, my love.” M’Baku says, and levels his warm, dark eyes on Erik. “I have missed you beside me from the moment I left this morning.”_

_“Yeah, what’d I tell you about the chick flick talk.” Erik says and pulls his hoodie over his head._

_His mate steps in, and runs his large hands over Erik’s sides._

_“I still have no idea what a chick flick is supposed to be.”_

_“Remind me to show you Beauty Shop when you get back.” Erik says and kisses him fiercely._

_There’s probably ancestors or spirits or some shit watching this all, but he couldn’t care less, and evidently M’Baku is on board as well. They tumble into the soft sand, and Erik settles on M’Baku’s lap to hurriedly undo the complicated knot of fabric that holds his mate’s trousers, something he still hasn’t had enough practice with. M’Baku figures out his jeans quicker, and his hand is in Erik’s boxers before he knows it._

_“Fuck…”_

_“We’ll get to that.”_

_His hands are so fucking large, and somehow he has the perfect grip, slow, deliberate strokes, just this side of tight, on the perfect edge of painful._

_Erik has to collect all of his concentration to defeat his mate’s clothes before he can return the favor with a growl. Briefly, he wonders what his prim, collected cousin would look like if Erik told him that he’s using his sacred connection to the spirit world to exchange handjobs on a riverbank. Then M’Baku flips him over and pins him to the ground with a grin, and swallows Erik’s cock down whole, and he stops thinking for a while._

 

Erik wakes to sticky silken sheets and a cold bed. An aloof servant brings him breakfast when he steps out of the shower, and then the boxes of his father’s belongings arrive.

It’s an entire life.

Essays for school, books that have little notes in Wakandan chickenscratch commented at the edges, some still with colorful bookmarks in them.

To Kill A Mockingbird has a handwritten inscription on the first page.

_Your future is whatever you make it, so make it a good one! Happy Birthday, Little Brother! Enjoy your Time in America!_

There are three boxes of clothes that smell like the Palace’s luxurious laundry detergent. There are kimoyo beads, not the sleek modern design, but the charger on the nightstand works on them.

There’s family photos. There’s videos of vacations, of two brothers playing ball. Auntie Ramonda and- it’s a wedding photo. Auntie Ramonda again, with an infant that giggles at the camera. Large brown eyes that have remained pretty into the present day.

There’s diaries.

Lunch passes, dinner passes, and for the first time, Erik doesn’t spare the sunset a second glance.

He browses through the kimoyo beads’ memories, and then he reads, and reads, and reads. There’s a sudden hunger in his soul that won’t stop, a burning anger and longing for this entire life that he never even knew his father had.

His mate returns in the morning, the second morning after he left, like promised.

“Will you show me what you have found?”

Erik does. He has gone without sleep for longer, but M’Baku still picks him up when he is finished, lifts him over his shoulder and navigates the mess that is their living room with determination.

“I really don’t wanna go to bed right now-” Erik says, and finds himself thrown onto the bouncy mattress regardless.

“Let’s discuss that.” M’Baku says, and undoes his belt for him.

They fuck, rough and competitive, and it’s good, but now that they know there could be, should be someone else, it explains a lot.

“Come outside with me.” M’Baku says when Erik wakes from his short nap on his mate’s chest. “You spent two days inside. It’s not healthy.”

“I kind of was an ass to my Cousin.”

Erik tells M’Baku about the dinner, and the aftermath, and M’Baku nods with consideration.

“You think this is the final drop to the boiling pot?”

“Nu-uh.” Erik huffs.

It’s strange. Mere two weeks ago, he would never have dreamed that there would be someone he would trust with his emotions openly like this. M’Baku takes everything in stride though.

“He’s gon’ forgive me, cause he’s an idiot like that. He was doing this painful gazing thing, you know? Hate to admit it, but I felt kinda shitty leaving him standing there.”

“You are not an _irredeemable_ asshole, yes, I know.” M’Baku says.

“Screw you.” Erik says.

“If you ask so politely.”

An hour later, they manage to get into the shower, and then they really do leave their apartment in the goddamn royal palace.

In the lobby they meet W’Kabi, because this Palace is a weird amalgam of hotel, company headquarters and Enterprise and so of course it has a freaking lobby.

“Chief M’Baku, Prince N’Jadaka. Or do you prefer Erik?” The king’s best friend greets them with a polite smile.

“Either is fine.” Erik shrugs. “What’s up?”

“I am heading to the training grounds. Okoye and the Princess managed to trick T’Challa into taking the afternoon of.” W’Kabi tells them with easy fondness. “And you two?”

“We were looking for an opportunity for some exercise.” M’Baku says smoothly.

“Then you are welcome to join us.”

“You sure the King’s okay with that?” Erik questions.

“I can’t imagine why not.” W’Kabi says. Huh. So he definitely isn’t in the loop with the latest gossip.

They take W’Kabi up on his invitation in any case. The training grounds are something else, well maintained and generous, all the t’s crossed. Nobody ever had to struggle for a budget when this place was built. Then again, that goes for every building in this city, probably in this entire country.

The King is talking to his General when they arrive, but he turns to greet them, affable as ever. Erik asks him for a sparring match to ruffle that composure, and all he gets in return is a smile as earnest as sunshine.

M’Baku meets Erik’s eyes with a knowing look, and honestly, his mate has no leg to stand on considering the way he has been checking out his cousin. Erik isn’t even mad. Next to being an infuriating model of composure, T’Challa is made entirely out of eye candy, every line of his body sculpted by angels who probably wept over the perfection for the entire process.

While his mate challenges W’Kabi to what is basically a dick-measuring contest with extra steps, Erik can’t help but watch his cousin with the CIA Agent. Ross only has one thing going for him, and that is an amount of awkwardness that is so overboard, it results in an annoying sort of compulsory cuteness. T’Challa is an excellent teacher though, and even from the distance Erik can see the way the smaller man’s style improves.

M’Baku wins, because his mate is not so secretly a massive show-off, and T’Challa ends his lesson for Ross by knocking him to the floor, but in the nicest way possible, go figure. Whatever his cousin says to Ross, it has the other man laugh out loud, which sends a flash of envy through Erik’s chest.

Okoye approaches T’Challa and asks him for a match, and the Captain of the Dora Milaje joins them. W’Kabi teases them, and T’Challa returns the banter with ease curled into his smile, and that should feel surreal, but it doesn’t. It feels like something that Erik is missing out on. M’Baku comes to stand next to Erik, and they settle in to watch what promises to become an interesting fight.

And _shit_.

There is something firm, established, unbreakable between the three combatants that goes beyond the way they predict each other’s moves.

_Trust._

T’Challa is one graceful, deadly motherfucker, _Fuck_. The way the king dances between his two opponents, no movement wasted, is possibly the most damn beautiful thing Erik has ever seen. M’Baku shifts, and their arms brush, and Erik scents the faintest trace of controlled, restrained arousal, and knows at least he’s not alone with that particular opinion.

T’Challa literally kicks the Captain out of the fight and disarms the General like child’s play, and Erik realizes he ain’t seen nothing yet.

Okoye has a vicious streak a mile wide, he learned that when he fought her in earnest and was only saved by the grace of a magic catsuit. She goes after T’Challa with everything she has, and the King _laughs_. The sound rings in Erik’s ears and sticks to his mind long after his cousin has disarmed his opponent again, and she has yielded.

“You still up for one more round?” he asks, and ignores M’Baku’s smirk. This is Erik’s way to reassure his cousin that they’re fine, and nothing else. Right. It goes a little off track when the Princess mercilessly throws Zuri’s death back in his face, and T’Challa is back to his aloof calm when he accepts.

He doesn’t want to hurt T’Challa, alright, that’s the pathetic truth. Not because the General continues to measure his movements, definitely calculating the exact trajectory of the spear she still has in hand. T’Challa is a genuine, unreal enigma wrapped into the prettiest pair of large brown eyes, and there is no joy or honor in hurting a kitten.

If it weren’t for the fact that his scent is the most unappealing, bland blend of nondescript that Erik ever encountered, he would seriously question his feelings. But like this, there is just this urgent need to be kind to his unreasonably gentle cousin.

His gentle cousin who kicks him 10 feet into the fucking cold water.

_Alright, fuck that._

If he wants serious, it’s what he’ll get. Erik bares his teeth, and T’Challa actually smiles, ever so slightly, and of course Erik ends up pinned to the ground anyways. Somewhere, some Goddess or God are laughing viciously at him.

T’Challa helps him up, his hand warm, firm, and he arranges lessons for Erik. Erik looks at his mate, and M’Baku somehow manages to reassure him with a single glance. M’Baku is amazing like that.

The Princess is still angry at him. Of course she is. Erik thinks of his father’s diaries, and knows that N’Jobu would have fought tooth and claw for his brother. It’s in that exact moment that he decides that yes, he does want to be a part of this family. So he makes an effort, and is rewarded with an array of amazingly creative insults. It’s a good start, as far as he is concerned.

And then the Kimoyo beads glow red, and the next chapter starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Well then, tell me what you think! Would you like more like that?


End file.
